Nova
by an-extraordinary-muse
Summary: Nothing is lost that cannot be found; nothing is broken that cannot be mended. In the face of a loss, Ziva receives comfort - and reassurance - from an unexpected source. Ziva/Gibbs father/daughter interaction.


_**Author's Note: Apparently I've unintentionally decided to play a little game of "how many projects can you juggle at once" - not so sure this one is gonna end well for me, but hey. The little plot bunnies for this simply would not leave me alone; I was going crazy trying to ignore them, so I just decided to knock this one out. That being said, I've never written Gibbs before, so I hope he came out believable. Please feel free to drop me a little review and let me know what you think - I live for your feedback!**_

**_Spoilers: None, although it takes place in season 7._**

**_Disclaimer: Yeah I totally won them in a raffle this summer ... or not. Please don't sue me because of my lame attempt at sarcasm - they're not mine._**

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><p><em>In a year<em>

_Or ten, I will be there_

_I will come for you_

_When you are on your own._

~_Benjamin Francis Leftwich_

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><p>She didn't miss it … much. At least, that's what she kept telling herself, anyway.<p>

Still, she would find herself reaching for her neck at odd moments in the day when she needed to feel particularly grounded or connected, only to stop herself mid-motion with a silent reminder that she would find nothing there. The loss was hard to grow accustomed to, the memory of its weight against her skin an unexpected ghost and unwelcome reminder of all that she had lost.

Rationally, Ziva knew that it had carried no intrinsic value: it was not worth much as a piece of jewelry, she knew, merely a shiny piece of metal that had worn down a little over the years she had exposed it to the elements. That didn't matter, though, because it had meant something to _her_; it had been important. Her Star of David had been the only piece of jewelry she'd worn in years, since the day her parents had given it to her all those years ago. They had been birthday presents, one presented to her and one to Tali, the year before her sister had died. The necklaces had been identical, and one of the only things in later years that made Ziva feel as if she still held on to a piece of her sister.

In many ways, the loss of her necklace had been worse than any torture Saleem and his men had imparted.

She hadn't realized for some time after her rescue that it was no longer around her neck. As it was, the moment had been harsh and hard to swallow: she had just stepped out of the shower and reached up to untangle the pendant from where it always caught in the curls of her hair only to pull her hand away empty. The memory had come to her easily: Saleem ripping it from her neck, the bite of the chain as it strained against her skin and finally snapped apart. The theft had enraged her, but the anger hadn't stood a chance in the whirlwind of emotions and experiences that had followed; the transgression had fallen to the end of a long line of other, more heinous acts.

Ziva had never considered herself a particularly sentimental woman, and yet the second loss of her necklace had upset her almost more than the first. She'd stood in front of her bathroom mirror and stared at the bare skin below her throat for long moments, for once allowing herself to really feel and acknowledge the depth and scope of her grief. Her father would have told her that she was being ridiculous, but her father wasn't there.

He hadn't been there for a long time.

She tried not to ruminate on the absence of her Star, tried to suppress the urges to finger its familiar sharp edges in moments of turmoil or indecision. She had other jewelry, but oddly felt as though wearing anything else would be a betrayal – to whom or of what she wasn't certain, but the feeling was strong enough to keep her neck bereft.

Lately, however, Ziva had taken to wondering if it wasn't fitting somehow that she should have lost the trinket in the desert. There was some sort of symbolism there, she knew, some sort of message that she could not (or would not) acknowledge; perhaps it was only right that the last physical reminder of that part of her life had died out there in the desert, forever linked to the part of her that had died as well.

Still, she missed her little gold necklace; she missed the pendant that had been like an old familiar friend to her, one that had stood as a silent witness to the events of her life. She had never truly appreciated just how much of her identity had been wrapped up in the thing until it was taken from her.

More than once in the weeks that followed her return to D.C – and, subsequently, NCIS – she would feel someone's eyes on her and glance around to find one of her teammates watching her, and only under their scrutiny would she realize that her hand had drifted once again to her neck. Embarrassed, she would drop her hand as if her skin were on fire; the first few times, she could feel the weight of the questions they refused to ask. She never volunteered an answer, though, and they never formed the question.

Just when she thought that she had finally resigned herself to its absence, the unexpected happened.

She hadn't been back at work for long, and the strain of all that they had been through had been wearing her down with startling ease. The trust and friendship that had characterized her relationship with the others before had been undermined with the grim reality of the last few months, and she had started to wonder if they would ever get back to the way they were before she'd screwed up.

The day had been a long one, her exhaustion pulling her into a bleakness of mood that was no longer strange for her. Tim and Tony had left for the evening – both with kind wishes for a good night that had briefly felt something close to normal – and left Ziva deliciously alone with her solemnity.

She was, oddly enough, looking forward to the time alone. She had a few more reports to type up before she was willing to call it a night, and the relative peace of the bullpen was soothing compared to its usual hustle and bustle. The tension that had wound its way through her body during the day showed the first signs of relenting, and she couldn't resist: she'd pulled her iPod from her bag and connected it to the little portable speaker she kept with it.

Ziva had just pulled the documents up on her computer when she changed her mind and decided that she wanted tea. She grabbed her coffee mug and a bag of chamomile tea and made her way on silent feet to the water cooler.

She liked seeing the bullpen this way, at peace after a grueling day of catching killers and making the city a safer place for others. She liked knowing that such tranquility could exist in a place of such constant motion.

She was intent on swirling the bag through the steaming water as she made her way back to her desk, and so it was that she only noticed something was out of place as she prepared to take a seat.

Ziva set her mug down on the corner of her desk and narrowed her eyes at the object: a nondescript black box, sitting primly in front of her keyboard.

_What the hell?_

She was almost afraid to touch it, so uncertain of where or whom it had come from. She made herself run a finger over the smooth exterior and take a deep breath before pulling the lid open.

Her eyes took in the sight immediately, but her brain was slower to process the image; when it did, she felt certain that she had started to tremble.

Pale gold glittered softly from its bed of dark velvet, the tiny pinpoints of light dancing under the rutilant glow of her desk lamp. Her breath had caught in her throat, and she blinked rapidly in an attempt to reconcile herself to the truth of what she was looking at: a Star of David, winking at her as if in hello.

The chain was petite and feminine looking; the pendant itself was thinner and simpler than her old one, bereft of any embellishments other than superior craftsmanship. She couldn't resist tracing the edges with her finger: it was smooth and flat, and rather than detracting from its appeal its simplicity struck her as being stunning.

Ziva had no idea where he had come from – probably materialized out of the air, as he was wont to do – but she felt his presence not far off, to her left. She wanted to say something, but she found that words would not come. Instead, she glanced away from the necklace – although she didn't put it down – and sought his gaze.

"I know it won't replace the old one," He said quietly, "And it doesn't carry the same memories, but I thought you might like it."

Gibbs was the very last person Ziva would ever have expected to do something as sentimental as buying her jewelry, but there he was standing across from her, gauging her reaction.

"It is beautiful, Gibbs," She finally managed to say around the lump that had formed in her throat.

"Here." The man that had been more of a father to her in the last five years than her true father had been in the last fifteen stepped forward and took the small box from her. With deft fingers he lifted the chain from it's cushion and undid the clasp, surprising her with the ease and quickness with which he did so. He stepped behind her and she automatically pulled her hair away from her neck and over one shoulder, unable to resist watching the little gold pendant as he slung it around her neck.

There was something fitting about her surrogate father replacing the lost necklace that her biological father had given her after crossing an ocean and several thousand miles to save her life.

"You're going to be okay, Ziver." His voice, the same voice she had thought she would die without ever hearing again only a short time ago, was one of the most reassuring things she'd ever heard. There was something so grounding about his presence, so … firm. It was easy to believe him when he was saying things she wanted to hear, but did that make them true?

"I am … broken, Gibbs." She hated that her voice sounded more like a whisper, and her hand traveled automatically to press the little gold star against her skin.

"Broken? No. Damaged maybe, but not broken."

He had stepped out from behind her and come to stand next to her, azure eyes piercing her with that same intense perception she had grown accustomed to over the years.

"It is perfect." She let her hand fall away from where it lay just under the hollow of her throat and smiled for the first time in what felt like days. "New Star, new life, new memories."

That earned her one of the rare "Gibbs smiles", and the sight made her heart swell. She wouldn't admit to it aloud, but she was finding it increasingly hard not to think that some small sliver of goodness had come out of her months spent in captivity: for the first time in her life, Ziva was free of her father's unhealthy brand of love; for the first time in her life, she knew without any trace of doubt that she was with people who loved her enough to lay down their lives for her.

She was safe, and loved, and protected; she didn't think it mattered so much whether or not what Gibbs said was true – all that mattered was that she believed him.

She would be okay; they all would. They'd work it out, because that's what family did.

"Go home, Ziver – get some sleep."

He pressed a light kiss to her forehead, just below her hairline, and the sweetness of the act made her smile again.

"Thank you, Gibbs."

He turned to leave, headed for the elevators, but stopped and half turned to her when she called his name.

"Good night," She called softly.

"Night, kid."

Her heart swelled with love and gratitude; she reached up to run a finger over the smooth pane of her Star of David and felt peace settle around her for what was perhaps the first time since her sister's death.

_**Fin**_

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><p><em><strong>Secondary AN: Any mistakes are mine, and since I wrote this all in one sitting right before bed, there might be a few. Sorry for that. <strong>_


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